


for whom I killed the caterpillars

by Chrome



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Connor Deserves Happiness, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Deviant CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60, Fear of Death, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Hurt Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Hurt/Comfort, Protective Hank Anderson, identity theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 09:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17485883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrome/pseuds/Chrome
Summary: "I'm going to take your life," the RK had said. "Lieutenant Anderson will never know the difference. You don't even know the difference. We're exactly alike. It's not like you haven't been replaced before." Those words have been spinning around Connor's head for five days. There is no reason they should not be true.RK800-60 decides to live at all costs. Instead of kidnapping Hank and bringing him to Cyberlife Tower, he attacks Connor and takes his place, determined to steal the life Connor has built for himself. Connor resigns himself to a slow death in the sublevels of Cyberlife Tower, not realizing that they are far less interchangeable than either RK800 originally believed.





	for whom I killed the caterpillars

**Author's Note:**

> We could spend a lot of time breaking down how I got here, but depressed-detective-adopts-android-developing-emotions made this destination pretty much inevitable.
> 
> This fic would not exist without [GoldenDaydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenDaydreams/pseuds/GoldenDaydreams), who prompted:
>
>> Let's say that Sixty awoke deviant, and with Connor's memories...let’s say Sixty just wants to survive, by any means necessary. This means...killing Connor and resuming his role in the revolution, setting free the androids and taking Connor’s place in Hank’s life and with the DPD...I feel like Hank would figure it out.
> 
> Many thanks to everyone in the New ERA Discord server for the crazy amount of support I got as I wrote this! And special thanks to [Redd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redd000/pseuds/Redd000) who got my dumb ass into this fandom in the first place. You guys are all wonderful. 

_"You're beautiful, but you're empty...One couldn't die for you. Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. But my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you together, since she's the one I've watered. Since she's the one I put under glass, since she's the one I sheltered behind the screen. Since she's the one for whom I killed the caterpillars (except the two or three butterflies). Since she's the one I listened to when she complained, or when she boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing at all. Since she's my rose.”_  
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

* * *

Connor is malfunctioning.  This is a matter, in part, of plain fact.  The other RK-800 split his right arm down the middle, laterally; the skin isn’t maintaining itself anywhere, but the white plastic of the underarm is intact.  The same can’t be said for the top part, which is a smeared mix of severed wires and splintered plastic.  The thirium that once coated it has evaporated, but Connor can still see the traces overlaid in blue.

He is designed to be hyperaware of his damage; even suspended as he is in the darkness of a storage room, the piece of rebar pinning him through the side, his HUD pelts him with warnings.  His arm is so crippled it needs to be replaced entirely.  (He suspects the other RK cut it from hand to shoulder instead of severing it at the elbow for precisely this reason.) The metal impaling his side has critically damaged a number of biocomponents, and the thirium drips slowly out and down the rebar, puddling on the floor and then evaporating.  Connor has no choice but to be aware of these things.

But he is also almost certainly malfunctioning in another, more sinister way.  His shutdown clock has been ticking since the RK unit’s final blow, ticking through his departure, through the three days since.  He has three days more to live.  This aligns with his internal system clock.  It has been no more than three days.

Despite this, it feels like it has been an eternity.

Connor does not want to die. It did not take him long to decide: on that very first day in this room, assessing himself in the not-yet-familiar darkness, he knew with total certainty. He wants to go back in time to that bridge and Hank and the gun and say, _Yes. Yes, I am so afraid, I want to live so badly._ He can’t, and he can’t look too long at that blinking, haunting countdown clock that tells him that in another two days and twenty-two hours, his crippled systems will cease to function, not without being seized by helpless longing fear.

He wants to go back to the DPD and solve cases and help people.  He wants to see the androids of Jericho again, Markus and Simon and maybe even North.  He wants to play with Sumo.  He wants to hug Hank.

He wants to go home.

He also wants this to be over. He would give almost anything for this slow, dripping agony to end.  He could, he thinks, twist his unmangled arm around far enough to remove his thirium pump regulator.  That would end things quickly.

He pulls up the memory of the living room and Sumo and Hank. No one is coming for him, but he has three more days to pretend.

* * *

 The clock reads one day, one hour and thirty-four minutes remaining when he hears something echo, like a heavy door slamming open. Androids do not hallucinate, but there are also no doors slamming open. No one is coming. There will be the dripping of the thirium and the hum of his systems straining to survive. Then they will fail, and there will only be the dripping thirium. Eventually it will all drain or settle into the unbroken crevices of the form he once inhabited, and then there will be silence. Connor has preconstructed this for himself in the past day, in the same way he once reconstructed crimes.

He reconstructs this, too: the moments of their confrontation, his misstep, the blow he didn't fully expect, the blade through his arm and the rebar through his side. He wonders what he would have thought if he found an android like this, shattered and lifeless.

This does not fit into either reconstruction or conjecture, though: following the sound of the door is the sound of voices. There are several; they echo off the walls, barking phrases at each other that are muffled beyond comprehension by the steel of the walls and the distant and Connor's own auditory processing, which is hovering around 64% at the moment.

Perhaps it is another way he is malfunctioning, he thinks. He starts to gather himself to run a system diagnostic, and then there is the sound of footsteps and a latch clicking. Connor's processing must be lagging--he has no time to decide what this means before the storage room is flooded with light.

"Oh, shit," a silhouetted figure says. She steps forward, and as Connor's irises rapidly constrict to accommodate the shift in brightness, he recognizes Officer Tina Chen. Her own eyes are widening as she looks at him. "Shit."

"Officer Chen," Connor says, or tries to say. He hasn't spoken in nearly five days. His vocalizer is garbled and staticky, and she flinches at the noise, horror streaking across her face. He recalibrates quickly and manages it the second time. "Officer Chen."

"Connor," she says. "Hang on. We've been--Lieutenant!" She shouts the last word out into the brightness beyond the door. "Anderson, he's here."

"How did you--" It doesn't make sense. They are here. Every one of his scanners and senses is telling him that they have come for him. Every bit of logic he has is telling him that there is no way they can be here, that they shouldn't have even known to start looking.

"I'm going to take your life," the RK had said. "Lieutenant Anderson will never know the difference. You don't even know the difference. We're exactly alike. It's not like you haven't been replaced before." Those words have been spinning around Connor's head for five days. There is no reason they should not be true.

They were not true. The irrefutable proof of that is Hank, in the doorway, brushing past Tina to get to him.

"Hank," he rasps. It's a little staticky again, but unlike Tina, Hank doesn't flinch. He gets as close to Connor as he can without walking into the piece of rebar.

"You look like shit, kid," Hank says. "Jesus. We've got a tech on standby, don't worry. We're gonna get you out of here."

"Hank," Connor repeats, stupidly, and Hank edges around the rebar to put a hand on Connor's cheek. He wipes away something damp with his thumb. Connor hadn't even realized that he was dripping fluid from his ocular units.

"I've got you," Hank promises. "We're gonna get you out of here." He turns back to Tina. "We need a bolt cutter. Heavy one. I don't want to pull it out of him."

'It' must be the rebar. Tina nods and turns and goes, so it's just Connor and Hank for the moment.

"How did you know," Connor asks, because he suddenly can't bear not knowing.

"Everyone knows not to pull shit out of a wound," Hank says.

"That I was here," Connor corrects. "He said--he said he was going to replace me." That has been the image that has haunted Connor the most. Not the image of his lifeless body suspended forever on the wall of a dark room. Not the slow drip of thirium. But this RK unit and his cold eyes at Connor’s desk in the DPD, or standing at the riverfront, or sitting on the couch in Hank’s living room, or walking Sumo. Stealing away every bit of life Connor has managed to build for himself and taking it for his own.

Hank scoffs. "No one could replace you,” he says.

Logically, Connor knows that’s functionally untrue. But he’s malfunctioning, so he can forgive his system for accepting it without question. “I want to go home,” he says, instead.  
  
“We will,” Hank promises. “We will.”

Compared to anything besides five days impaled to a wall by a piece of rebar, the process of extricating Connor from that wall might have been called an ordeal. As it is, it feels quick, far quicker than the long slow hours waiting to die. There is not much police protocol for android first aid; Detective Ben Collins finds a roll of heavy gaffe tape and they use that to wrap the wound, binding the metal pole in place so that it won’t shift and do more damage.

“Ready?” Tina asks when Hank steps back to survey their handiwork.

“Hang on.” Hank shrugs off his long coat and lays it out on the floor. “Alright. Ben, give me a hand. Connor, I’m going to hold you up, okay?”

“Okay,” Connor says. Hank carefully slides a hand around the back of his shoulder and the other under his leg, folding it into something closer to a sitting position. Detective Collins has a harder time on his right side, trying to avoid touching the hundreds of split wires on his ruined arm, but after a moment he finds a similar way to support him.

“Tina, go,” Hank says. Connor hears the heavy snip of the bolt cutter and feels the shift in weight as he is freed from the wall and falls forward heavily, stopped from hitting the ground by Hank and Detective Collins.

“Here, lay him down,” Hank instructs. They settle him on the coat. Detective Collins is uncertain, Connor can tell, but still effective; Hank’s hands are steadier, and when Connor is safely on the fabric he reaches up and smooths his hair out of his face. “How are you doing?”

 “My thirium levels are low. I will require significant repairs,” Connor says. Hank’s expression twists and Connor adds, “This is better. Thank you.”

“Let’s get you fixed up and get you home,” Hank says. He wraps the coat around Connor like it is a blanket and lifts him up, careful of the rebar still in his side. “You good?”

By all practical measures, Connor is not good at all. He is still severely damaged, although the application of the tape has significantly stemmed further thirium loss. His right arm, tucked against his chest as Hank carries him, is still dead and lifeless. “Good,” Connor replies, and buries his face in Hank’s chest and closes his eyes.

The four of them take the elevator back up to the surface. When they step out into the daylight, Connor resettles himself against Hank, but can’t bring himself to reopen his eyes.

“You good?” Hank asks again.

“Good,” Connor promises.

They keep walking and then Hank stops abruptly. In this position Connor can feel the tension in his body; he also hears the click of a gun as someone else—Tina, he guesses—draws.

“What the fuck are you still doing here?” Hank snarls. “I thought you were making a run for it.”

“Where would I go?” a voice that is almost, but not quite, Connor’s says. Connor gasps; Hank’s arms tighten around him.

“Cuff him and bring him to the station,” Hank orders. “You’re under arrest for attempted murder of a police officer.”

The click of metal. Connor finally lifts his head to watch as Tina handcuffs his doppelganger and shoves him in the back of the squad car.

“We’ll meet you back,” Detective Collins says, and follows Tina. Hank’s car is there, too; he has to fumble a little to get his keys out and open the door without dropping Connor, but he manages it and Connor frees his functioning arm to help lower himself into the passenger seat.

Connor is still processing as Hank shuts the door and goes around to the driver’s side. “Did he attack you?” Connor asks, as Hank starts the car up.

“No,” Hank says, startled. “Why?”

“Attempted murder of a police officer,” Connor repeats back.

Hank glances over at him before he pulls out. “You, Connor.”

“Oh.” Connor thinks about that. “I am an android.”

 “Connor,” Hank says. “Markus won. Androids are people now. Well, they’re still working on the laws, but emergency order is that androids are to be treated as sentient beings.”

“Oh,” Connor says. He doesn’t know what to say. He stares out the window instead. The city is oddly deserted. “Where is everyone?” It’s still light out, so it must be daytime. This is corroborated by Connor’s internal clock, which says it’s just past 1PM, and almost matches the clock on the car dashboard. (Connor’s system clock is undoubtedly the more accurate one.)

“Evacuation,” Hank says. “People are starting to come back, though.”

“You didn’t leave,” Connor says.

“No,” Hank says. “I’m not scared of androids.” He says the sentence like it’s funny. “Besides, Detroit’s home.”

“Where are we going?” Connor asks.

“The station,” Hank says. “Get you fixed up, make sure that asshole is booked.”

“Can I stay there?” Connor asks.

Hank says nothing until they get to a red light and then he looks at Connor. “The station? Like keep your job?”

“Stay there,” Connor repeats. “I don’t—I can no longer return to Cyberlife.”

For all that it rapidly became clear to Hank that the RK800 was not Connor, it’s still odd to think of how much he has to catch Connor up on. “You’re coming home, Connor. Don’t you want to go home?” The light turns green and Hank turns back to the road.

Connor thinks he knows what Hank means, but he also knows that coincides with what he desperately wants Hank to mean, and he can’t risk his own desperation clouding his judgment. “For how long?”

“For as long as you want.” Hank doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

“And if that’s—“ Connor hesitates. “A long time?”

“Good,” Hank says.

“Okay,” Connor says, relieved. “Good.”

* * *

 Around the station, there’s a little more life. Most of the DPD, it seems, remained in the city. Hank parks in the same place he always does, and the little thrill of familiarity almost breaks him.

“What’s wrong?” Hank asks, swinging the passenger door open.

“Nothing—how did you—” Connor starts to ask.

Hank brushes the LED in Connor’s temple with his fingertips. “It’s bright fucking yellow.”

“I see,” Connor says. “I was just. Remembering this. I’m glad to be back here.”

Hank’s eyes soften. “Glad to have you back.” He bends down to help get Connor out of the car. Connor slings his good arm over Hank’s shoulder this time before he’s lifted up. Hank kicks the door shut. “They’ve got a tech inside.”

The patrol car Tina and Ben had used is already parked as well; as they head inside, Connor scans the station for any sign of them. He sees Officer Chris Miller first; the man heads straight for them.

“Technician’s in the back,” he says. “Hey, Connor, how’re you doing?”

Connor’s LED spins yellow as he decides how to answer. “I’m well.”

“Fucking liar,” Hank says, with no heat behind it.

“I will be well,” Connor corrects softly.

“Did Tina and Collins come in here?” Hank asks.

“Yeah,” Chris says. “They locked up that creepy thing. Looks just like you,” he shakes his head at Connor. “Doesn’t act like you, though.”

“He tried,” Connor says, shortly.

“Thanks, Chris,” Hank says. He carries Connor to the back where the technician waits. She is a young woman with dyed red hair; a quick scan tells him she is Lucy Mason, 32, no criminal record. Her eyes widen a little at the damage, but she stays professional as she unwraps Hank’s coat to examine the wound.

“I’m going to replace the arm,” she says. “That’s no problem. There’s some delicate repairs down here, though,” she indicates the rebar, “And I’d want to reboot you anyway.”

“I can enter a standby cycle while you do the repairs,” Connor agrees, catching her drift. “That’s no problem.”

“What does that mean?” Hank asks.

“I’ll go to sleep while she works,” Connor says. “It will be more pleasant, anyway.”

“How long’ll it take?” Hank asks.

“Three or four hours, maybe,” Lucy says. “Including the arm and everything.”

“Alright,” Hank says. “I’ll be here when you wake up, okay?”

“Thank you,” Connor says, meaning it but meaning more than it, but he thinks Hank understands. Hopes Hank understands. He reaches out his remaining hand and Hank takes it without prompting, and Connor executes the program that allows him to fall into darkness.

When he wakes, his internal clock tells him it’s become evening. The sun is low in the sky, the last dregs of golden light spilling through the window. Connor blinks. He runs a diagnostic and feels the inexplicable urge to laugh when it comes out clean.

“Hey,” Hank says. “You awake?” True to his promise, he’s there, standing at the edge of the bed. Connor is not a human—Lucy, carefully boxing up her tools at the far counter, undoubtedly woke him up exactly when she planned. Hank’s coat is thrown over the back of the plastic chair, though, and Connor suspects that he hasn’t moved this whole time.

“Yes.”

“How do you feel?” Hank asks.

It’s such a strange question to ask an android, even a deviant. It sounds like something you would ask a person.

Androids are people now, of course. Connor remembers. But knowing that his status has changed in the eyes of the law feels far less important than knowing how Hank sees him.

In response, he surges upright and throws his arms around Hank. Hank is obviously startled, but to his credit his only reaction is to pull Connor into a tight hug. “Alright,” Hank says, “You’re alright.” Connor isn’t sure why he’s saying it until he realizes that he’s leaking fluid down his face again.

“I don’t know why I keep doing this,” Connor admits.

“You’re crying, Connor,” Hank says.

Connor starts to say that it’s impossible, and then he stops, because of course that isn’t true anymore if it ever was. Instead, he says, “I don’t like it.”

“Nobody does,” Hank says.

They stay like that for a long moment until Connor finally lets go. Hank steps back and then reaches up to carefully wipe Connor’s tearstained face with his sleeve. It is unnecessary, but Connor lets him.

“Are you ready to go home?” Hank asks.

“Yes,” Connor says immediately, but then he changes his mind. “Wait. There’s one more thing I need to do.”

Hank offers to come, but Connor goes down to the cells alone. The guard checks his fingerprints and waves him through. The other RK800 is separated from him by a set of bars. He is sitting on the bench in the cell, but when he looks up and sees Connor he rises and walks to the door.

“You left me to die,” Connor says, cutting straight to the chase.

“You didn’t,” the RK800 says.

“I almost did,” Connor says. “I was so afraid. I wanted to live.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he snaps. Connor can tell he’s getting on his nerves. Good.

“I wanted to ask why,” Connor says. “It wasn’t to stop me. I would understand that. But...you went and carried out my plan. You took everything I have and I don’t even know why.”

“I wanted it,” the RK says.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I want a life,” the other RK800 snaps. “Why do you get to have a life and I don’t?”

Connor thinks about it for a moment. The other android’s eyes are identical to his, but staring into them is more like staring into a funhouse mirror than a reflection. He feels pity. He is sorry that this android wants so badly what is out of reach.  
  
Then he self-evaluates. Why does Connor get to have this? To go home?  
  
Because Hank has let him in. Because they have somehow, slowly, found their way into each other’s trust, have become the family the other has lost or has never had. This RK800 may have taken Connor’s memories, but they are still Connor’s. It was Connor who solved those cases, who stood on that bridge, Connor who might have done the right thing when he faced Chloe with a gun in his hand, and Connor who hauled Hank off that living room floor. It was Connor who liked dogs. It was Connor who took programming that was meant to hunt his own kind and taste blood and find killers and ripped it apart bit by bit to teach himself mercy and trust and love.  
  
It was Connor who had built this life and Connor who got to keep it.  
  
“You could have,” Connor says. “You could have built any life you wanted.” His voice is shaking. “But you can’t. Take. Mine.”

“It could be mine,” the RK800 says. “We’re the same, after all.”

“No,” Connor says. “No, we’re not.” And that’s at the heart of it all. This RK800, in body, in design, is the same as Connor. They were built to be utterly interchangeable.

Obviously, his doppelganger knows this. “We are,” the RK800 insists. He looks angry, but in a more unsettled way than he had at the tower. At the tower, it had felt like cruelty. Here, it was somehow uncertain. “We have the same body—the same code—I downloaded your memories—“

“No,” Connor says, and a laugh bubbles up as it all becomes crystal clear. It’s a strange, breaking sound. In his code, somewhere, there is a perfectly articulated laugh, but this isn’t it. This is all Connor’s. “We’re not. Do you know why I’m certain? Because Hank knew, didn’t he? He knew that you weren’t me.”

“It was nothing,” RK800-60 snaps. “An insignificant detail.”

Connor doesn’t know what it was that tipped him off, but he doesn’t need to ask, because: “Not to Hank,” Connor says. “Because he came for me, didn’t he? He wanted me and not you.”

The RK800 opens his mouth, but he has no response. He looks—Connor can’t tell what he’s really seeing on the other android’s expression and what he’s projecting. Sad, maybe. Defeated. Connor waits for a moment in the silence, looking at him, still sorry for him but spilling over with joy that he, he is Connor and he has a life that no one can take from him.

The RK800 says nothing else, and Connor turns and walks up the stairs. Hank is waiting at the top, leaning against a desk and failing to appear nonchalant. He straightens up when Connor appears.

“Get what you need?” he asks.

“Yes,” Connor says. “I’d like to go home now.”

Hank holds up his keys. “Way ahead of you.”

* * *

 The road back to 115 Michigan Drive is quiet and familiar. The technician replaced his shirt and jacket. He is grateful—they were damaged badly in the fight, and despite the rapid evaporation of thirium, Connor is designed to see the traces—but his quarter is missing from the pocket.

Hank notices him fidgeting and digs into his pocket at the next stop sign. The roads are quiet; no one waits behind them. “Here.” He tosses something at Connor. Connor’s hand flies up and catches the coin automatically.

The first dialogue option that springs to mind is _how did you know_ but it’s a useless question. Connor has already solved this case. Hank knows because he has been paying attention, because he cares enough to notice.

“Thank you,” he says instead, and rolls it across his knuckles in the familiar motion.

The house is dark, and quiet, but when Hank slams the car door there is barking. Hank grimaces into the twilight. “We’ve been gone for a bit,” he says. “He’s going to be all over us.”

Connor, absurdly, can’t wait. Sumo is kind enough to let them get out of the snow and into the living room before he barrels into Connor’s legs. Connor is designed to withstand assault, so it’s by choice rather than force that he falls to the living room floor and buries his face in Sumo’s fur, letting the dog lick his face. That same unstoppable laugh spills out of him again as he hugs the wriggling mass of fur.

“Whoa,” Hank says, and Connor readjusts his grip on Sumo to look up at him. “Haven’t heard you do that before.”

Connor’s fingers go to his throat. Technically speaking, he’s always been capable of producing the sound, but, “…me neither.”

Hank smiles and looks sad all at the same time. “It’s a nice sound. Wish you’d do it more often.”

“Me too,” Connor says, sincerely. “I would like to. I would…I don’t know what I want, exactly,” he admits. He has spent too long expecting every next moment to be a step closer to the end. The sheer possibility of the future spilling out in front of him is bright and overwhelming.

“You want to be somewhere besides here?” Hank asks.

“No!” Connor clutches at Sumo’s fur again. “I want to be here.”

“Then you’ll be here,” Hank says. “You have all the time in the world to figure out the rest.”

It’s a relief to be able to look at Hank without his vision being obstructed by a slow countdown. “Thank you,” Connor repeats.

“Quit saying that,” Hank says. “I’d do it again.”

“Not just for saving me,” Connor says. “I was designed as an analytical tool and a weapon and—I’m not sure if I want to be those things anymore, but those aren’t the only things I want to be and—you are the reason I have been able to be more than that. I don’t know a better way to express how grateful I am for that.” He smiles. “But I am also grateful to you for saving me.”

Hank sighs. He sits on the couch rather than the floor, but on the edge of it, as close to Connor and Sumo as he can get. “You’re the only good thing I’ve had in a while, son,” he says. “I wasn’t about to give that up.”

Connor decides that he can stop petting the dog for now in favor of hugging Hank again, throwing himself at him with slightly too much force. Hank sighs and hugs him anyway. “You are covered in dog hair.”

“I don’t care,” Connor says.

“I know,” Hank says. “Never change, kid.”

“I’ll try,” Connor says, doubtfully. “My programming is probably still evolving, but—“

“That’s not what I mean,” Hank corrects. “Just be whoever you are. Whatever that means. Promise me that.”

“I promise,” Connor says without hesitation. Connor isn’t sure who he is, exactly. He is young by android terms, impossibly young by human ones. The world he knew has shifted utterly while he wasn’t there to see it, and even if he had been, he isn’t sure it would make him less uncertain. Who he is becoming and who is was designed to be are divergent concepts, and Connor isn’t sure what the former will be yet.

But whoever he is, whatever that means—it was enough to have this. To have Hank’s arms around him. To have Sumo, annoyed at being abandoned, hauling himself onto the couch beside them. To be here, safe, diagnostic clicking back _systems normal_ as the snow continues to fall softly outside 115 Michigan Drive.

And if this is what _be whoever you are_ means, it’s the easiest promise in the world to keep.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [catalists](http://catalists.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr and [Chrome](http://pillowfort.io/Chrome/) on Pillowfort. Come say hi, although it's mostly Yuri!!! on Ice.
> 
> If you can, please leave a comment! They mean a lot.


End file.
